MIA
What I agreed to do with Romolo was reckless. Plain and simple. The second I’d said yes, a weight had settled on my shoulders, and it hadn’t lifted in the two days since he’d walked out my door.
I wasn’t a risk-taker. Years ago, when I set up an online investment account, I’d taken a survey that had labeled my risk tolerance as low. That had always felt like an accurate description of me. Low risk. Low drama. Low chance of doing anything that might implode my life.
And yet here I was risking everything.
I couldn’t let myself dwell on what would happen if we were caught—because whenever I did, panic coiled tightly around my throat.
My dad would be gutted. The campaign would have a PR nightmare on their hands. My friends would question my sanity. And with good reason, because despite everything I was gambling, I still couldn’t bring myself to regret it.
I’d relished our night together. And I wanted more.
More rough kisses. More mind-shattering sex. More him.
More. More. More.
It was an incessant chant inside my head, and I was well aware that this wasn’t mere curiosity anymore. It wasn’t even me chasing a dark thrill after a lifetime of denying myself anything of the sort.
This was about how he made me feel. A little braver. A little bolder. A little more selfish.
I never thought I’d like being selfish. It went against everything I believed. But maybe I only liked it when I was being selfish with him.
We had a narrow window of time to enjoy each other before reality caught up with us.
After my dad won—and at this point, his victory was all but assured—everything would end. Romolo wouldn’t want anything to do with me once my father and the DA launched their investigation into his family. And I wouldn’t be able to stand by and watch his world get torn apart by someone I loved.
The buzz of a phone inside my purse chased off the hollowness that accompanied that thought.
It was the burner.
Be ready outside your building at 6:30 p.m. I’m picking you up.
Giddiness fizzed and popped inside my chest as I hurried back home. I’d decided to walk back from my last meeting instead of taking a cab. It was just before six, which meant by the time I got there, I’d have just enough time to shower and change into something I hoped Romolo would appreciate for a bit before he tore it off me.
Just as I reached my block, my purse vibrated again—my normal phone this time.
“Hey, Mia, can you talk?” Eliza sounded frazzled.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“I’m freaking out. We’re supposed to have a shoot for my new collection tomorrow, and the stylist just disappeared on us.”
I frowned. “Disappeared?”
“She’s not answering her calls, not replying to emails—nothing. Either something happened, or she took our deposit and ghosted. But we have to get these photos done, Mia. If we can’t shoot tomorrow, I’ll have to reschedule everything—photographer, models, hair, makeup. And that could take weeks.”
I could practically hear her pacing. She’d told me about this collection at the ball—it was the biggest launch for her sunglasses brand yet.
“I’m desperate,” she admitted. “I know you don’t usually style for brands, but I trust your eye. Would you do it? I know you’d kill it.”
I bit my lip. I’d have to cancel on Romolo if I agreed to help her. “How many looks?”
“At least ten. I’ll send over the styling deck. We have most of the wardrobe, but the stylist was still pulling some pieces.”
“Okay, let me take a look.” I sat on my building steps, opened my laptop, and connected to my hotspot.
The deck loaded—a seventies-inspired aesthetic. Big frames, flared silhouettes, earth tones, bold textures. The base pieces were solid: silky blouses, structured blazers, vintage denim, and a few crocheted details. But the statement pieces were missing—the items that would tie the whole vision together and really sell the collection.
I tapped my nails against my laptop, thinking. ‘What happened to the stylist’s pulls?’
‘No clue. She was supposed to confirm today, but now she’s just gone.’
I’d need to source fast. Most of my usual showrooms in SoHo would be closing soon—if they weren’t closed already.
‘You need at least one killer fur-trimmed coat, a slinky halter dress, and some platform boots. Do you have any of that?’ I asked.
‘We’ve got platforms, but no coat. No dress either.’
I rubbed my temple, feeling torn. I didn’t want to cancel on Romolo, but I couldn’t leave Eliza stranded. She was one of my oldest clients, and she needed me right now. Not to mention I still felt weird about how Romolo had strong-armed her into inviting me to the ball.
Guess I still had leaps to go when it came to being selfish.
‘All right. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try my best.”
‘You’re a lifesaver. Can you be at the shoot tomorrow?’
I pulled up my calendar. My morning was free until about two p.m., when I then had a prep meeting with my dad’s team. I was expected to attend an evening event where I had to say a few words. It was tight, but if I started early and talked to Jenny about coming late to the prep meeting, I could maybe pull it off.
“We’d have to start first thing in the morning if you want me there for most of it. Like six.”
‘Done. But will you have time to gather everything?’
“It’ll be tight,” I admitted. “I’ll pull what I can from my closet, hit up contacts, and if I have to, I’ll buy a few pieces. Can you drop off what you already have at my studio in a few hours?”
‘You got it. You’re an angel. Thank you, Mia.’
‘See you in a bit.” I hung up and fired off texts to my showroom and PR contacts, then I grabbed the burner and sent a text to Romolo. My fingers drummed against my thigh as I waited for a reply.
A few minutes passed. Romolo didn’t respond, and neither did most of the other people I’d messaged. The ones who did answer came back with the same answer—“Sorry, nothing in stock.”
Damn it.
I tucked a strand behind my ear, mind racing. There had to be something. Somewhere.
Then it hit me.
Two weeks ago, I’d walked past a boutique on Madison Avenue—Late Republic. Their window display had a full seventies-inspired capsule collection. Velvet suits, slinky halters, faux-fur coats.
I grabbed my bag and slid my laptop inside. If they still had inventory, I might just have a shot at pulling this off.
I started down the stairs just as a familiar Mercedes pulled up to the curb. Guilt crept up my back. Guess Romolo hadn’t seen my text.
His gaze lasered in on me as I slid inside the passenger seat. The car smelled like him, and it made me want to burrow my face against his chest before I broke the bad news, but there was no time for that.
“I’m sorry. I can’t—“
He reached over, pushed his fingers into my hair, and slanted his lush mouth against mine. I let out a small moan at the taste of him. Heat licked at my skin, coaxing me to deepen the kiss. He felt so good, and I wanted to melt into him, but there was an incessant buzzing in the back of my mind, reminding me that I had no time to waste.
He let out a frustrated groan when I tore myself away. “Rom, I have a work emergency. I sent you a text.”
“Yeah, I saw. Decided to come anyway.” His jaw hardened. “Getting cold feet, Berry?”
If only he knew how badly I wanted to climb all over him right now. “No. It really is an emergency.”
His brows furrowed. “What happened?”
I brought him up to speed on the situation with Eliza.
When I was done, a sardonic smirk tugged on his lips. “You and your fucking savior complex.”
That stung, but I hid it. “I have to run to Late Republic.” My hand was already on the door handle when his palm appeared on my thigh.
“I’ll drive you,” he said roughly.
I glanced at him, taken aback. “You don’t have to. I can take the train.”
The car doors locked with a muffled click. “I said, I’ll drive you. Where is it?”
“On Madison Avenue,” I said after a beat.
He shifted into drive and pulled onto the road.
My teeth sank into my bottom lip. “Rom, I’m probably going to be up all night working on this. If you’re hoping we can still—
“Jesus, Mia.” He shot me an annoyed glare. “Just let me fucking help you.”
I bristled at his tone. “I didn’t realize sleeping with you came with additional perks.”
“It doesn’t. But you’re the first woman I’ve fucked who has a tendency to pass out when she’s anxious or stressed. You cracking your head open while getting off the 6 train would put a fucking damper on things, don’t you think?”
He was being crude, but I sensed that I’d hurt him by insinuating he was only helping me to get into my panties later. I breathed in deeply and allowed the sting of it to melt away.
“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it.
His hands tightened around the wheel. “Sure.”
“Do you mind if I work while we drive?” I asked.
He gave me a look, like what do you think? “Mia, do what you need to do. You don’t need to ask for my permission.”
There was no other word to describe the sparkling warmth that slid into my veins but fondness.
I was fond of Romolo Ferraro.
If I lingered on that thought, I’d never get anything done, so I tucked it away and got my laptop out of my bag.
